Warlord(111)

Robin came to stay with us at Westbury late that summer, a week or so after Lammas. He arrived with his dunderheaded squire Gilbert and a hundred men – many of whom were old comrades of mine – in a cloud of dust and shouts and laughter. My lord was in high spirits, bronzed by the French sun, and very happy to be able to spend a day or so with his wife and children before resuming the fight. I had given orders to Baldwin to set up the guest hall the moment the message arrived about his visit, with a private solar at the eastern end that was to be entirely at their disposal for the length of his stay. And Robin’s men were housed in a scatter of huts and stables around the courtyard.

My lord had been raising troops in Yorkshire and Wales following the resumption of hostilities in Normandy between King Richard and King Philip, and he came bearing an invitation to me to rejoin the struggle at his side.

‘You’re getting fat, Alan,’ was Robin’s impolite and quite inaccurate observation. ‘You’d better get back into the saddle and bring your soft, bloated body south with me. A sharp bit of action would do you the world of good!’

It was then almost a year since I had been pierced by the lance-dagger, a year of very little activity on my part, and yet, perhaps strangely, I felt not the slightest urge to leave Westbury and take up arms again. In fact, I was still struggling unsuccessfully with my queer malaise at that time – I found it difficult to get out of bed in the morning and had to be chivvied into the daylight long after dawn by Goody or Marie-Anne. It was not helped by the fact that I was still unable to sleep well and, when I did, my dreams were filled with horror.

Robin had a rendezvous in Portsmouth in a few days’ time with Little John, a company of his Sherwood archers, and the rest of King Richard’s newly raised troops, and this fresh contingent was planning to take ship and assemble in Barfleur by the end of August. ‘You really should come with me, Alan,’ Robin said in a more affectionate tone, as we sat over our wine in the main hall long after the rest of the household had gone to bed. ‘The King has been asking for you: he misses your music, apparently. And you can’t just mope here for the rest of your life. I take it that you are now fit enough for a campaign?’

I nodded miserably, and it was true: my chest had completely healed, and on the rare occasions that I did my duty by Thomas and engaged him in a lesson in swordcraft or on horseback with the lance, I found that my old skills, so hard won, had not deserted me. It was not my body that was ailing, but my soul. I struggled to explain to Robin the terrors that my night-time mind threw up, the deep currents of rage and fear that washed through me every day; with the only respite an ever-increasing tide of wine in the evening and a few hours of drowned oblivion. It was hard to tell my friend and master of these things: we were men, and warriors, and I hated to admit my weakness to anyone and particularly to someone whom I admired so much. And when I had finally revealed my sorry state to him, I thought I saw pity in his eyes, and that made me feel even worse. I felt a flare of red rage, and it was only with difficulty that I managed to keep a spew of angry insults behind my teeth.

‘I have known several brave men who have been plagued with this condition,’ said Robin softly, perhaps sensing my rage. ‘It is a soul-sickness of a kind that falls on a warrior who has seen too much of the raw face of battle. In each man, the illness and its cure is different. But you are not alone in this suffering, my friend, although I’m sure you must feel that you are. What does Tuck have to say about this matter?’

I saw then that Robin’s pity was, in truth, compassion.

‘Tuck says that I must have sinned greatly, and that God is punishing me – and perhaps he is right, there is much blood on my conscience. The Lord knows I have harvested many souls and not all of them deserved death at my hands. But I have done penance, as Tuck suggested, and prayed until my knees were numb, yet still I cannot find peace.’

‘Well, give it time,’ Robin said. ‘And rest here until you feel strong enough to take up arms again. I will say to King Richard that your wounds are not completely healed, which is true, in a way, and while he will miss you – as will I – he will not wish to embarrass us by enquiring further.’



And then he changed the subject and told me of the doings of our King in France since my return to England. ‘He’s a restless soul, is Richard,’ said Robin. ‘He cannot bear to be in one place for long: we’ve held court at Alençon, Tours, Poitiers, Chinon and Le Mans all in the past six months. Oh, and he has found time to buy a very pretty country estate for himself and his wife Berengaria at Sarthe, near Le Mans – though God knows when he will have the leisure to enjoy it. There is no end in sight for this war, as far as I can tell. The sides are equally matched and neither King will yield territory willingly. Still, it keeps our beloved sovereign happy – and out of mischief!’ Robin grinned wickedly at me, a sliver of silver in his eyes, and I made an effort to smile back.